How to Survive a Plague
by Pandasushiroll
Summary: Without his soul, Stiles isn't all that interested in helping Scott fight the Kanima. Nor is he interested in the extra quality time he gets to spend with Lydia passing notes for Scott and Allison. Will our heroes be able to stop the Kanima with void!Stiles throwing a wrench in their plans at every turn?
1. Omphaloskepsis

_So this story began as a result of my rewatching the second season of Teen Wolf and parts of the third season. I really like the idea of Stiles getting possessed but I felt like doing my own thing with it. (This chapter also sort of serves and an intro for the way I write Stiles.) It's a story that is very much focused on him and will get very dark in the near future. It's about possession and dark desires. Where the villain's motives aren't entirely clear. And it will have Stiles/Lydia, Scott/Allison, and references to past Lydia/Jackson. Anyway, without further adieu, I hope you enjoy it!_

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><p><strong>Stiles Stilinski<strong>

**.**

His body is sore in more places than he knew even existed in the human body. After treading water for a solid two and a half hours, Stiles is certain that he is set on not swimming for the rest of his life. His legs feel like jelly when he stands. On trembling legs, he wobbles toward Scott, who's got his laptop set up on his mom's car. His friend is scrolling through a computerized monster encyclopedia to find out what the hell had nearly killed them all ten minutes ago. And when Stiles actually looks at one of the pages, the text looks like a bunch of indiscernible scribbles.

"Is that even a real language?" He whines, slumping onto the car next to Scott, who shakes his head and shrugs. Then Tall-Dark-and-Creepy steps up, with Erica looking severely irritated behind him, and reveals the name of the damn thing. The two of them look as if they've just been tossed around in a mosh pit or something.

"You knew the whole time?" Scott says it, but Stiles is right there with him, scoffing in equal exasperation. Derek remains impassive (as he always does), and Erica (who doesn't appear bothered either) glances at her perfectly manicured nails. How had they remained intact?

"I wasn't sure about it until it got confused by its own reflection." Derek says stone faced. Stiles is honestly sort of torn between wanting to cry and wanting to punch Derek in the face for being an evasive asshole. There's an entire series of statements that form some kind of explanation after this cryptic clue, but Stiles has reached his capacity for dealing with crazy supernatural shit for the evening. His muscles are stiff, his skin is numb, and the track suit he's wearing is sticking to him in all the most uncomfortable places (especially in the armpit and crotch areas). And the world around him is getting more and more blurry by the minute.

.

The next thing he knows, he's hitting his head on the window of Scott's mom's car, and being jolted awake. Some odd, surprised noise comes out of him when it happens.

Scott glances at him as if to check on his sanity—general well-being, and says something like, "You okay?"

Stiles nods, or at least he thinks he does. He must have because Scott is moving on with the conversation, something about Allison's family being crazy hunters and werewolf stress. Stiles has definitely reached his capacity for dealing with the Allison-and-her-crazy-ass-family shit too. (And besides, all the Allison trouble blends together after a while). At some point he falls asleep in the car again, and wakes up feeling cold and damp with chattering teeth. Scott is making this hilariously scrunched face—like he smells something awful—but Stiles recognizes this expression as Scott's concerned face.

He manages one laugh before he stutters out, "K-keep mak-king that fac-ce and you won't n-need a Halloween mask-k th-this year."

It does the trick, Scott rolls his eyes and stops looking worried for a moment, "Go get warmed up."

"W-will do." Stiles gives his friend a shaky two fingered salute as he slips out of the passenger side.

.

His father isn't home when he slouches through the front door. So the house is cast in total darkness, and it's a miracle Stiles doesn't trip over anything or kick stray objects. He waits until he hears Scott drive away (because you know, _werewolf hearing_.) Exhausted, he falls back against the door, waits a beat, slides down to the ground, and lets out a deep sob that's rooted in the pit of his stomach and makes his whole body begin to tremble again.

Stiles feels raw, like an exposed nerve. Everything hurts: calves, thighs, stomach, arms, fingers, neck. In fact, there is a string of tension pulling from his neck through his shoulder blades to the base of his spine. He makes himself take a few deep, cleansing breaths, feeling the chlorine from his lungs seep out from his mouth on the wisps of his breath. Scott had taught him long ago the importance of taking deep, cleansing breaths in times of stress. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, and then counts again to three, and then makes himself stand up on tired legs.

He trudges to his room, where he crawls into the shower, turns the dial almost completely to the left, and waits for his body to thaw out. It doesn't take long for the water to start burning his skin, he should have eased himself into the heat, but as always, Stiles does not know how to pace himself. He leaps into things without thinking and regrets it, and always ends up getting hurt for Scott's benefit. It's been this way as long as he can remember. He's always taken the metaphorical bullet for his best friend. And recently, as things have been getting more and more insane, Stiles finds himself wondering if that metaphorical bullet will become literal in the near future. He thinks about all this as he sits in the shower, under the too hot water, as he waits for something to start making sense.

.

The next morning Stiles wakes with a sore body and no memory of climbing into bed. He moves to rub his eyes but finds that overnight his fingers had clenched into pseudo claws, which is how he ends up accidentally stabbing himself in the eye. Now fully awake, he tries rolling out of bed but encounters another setback; he had tucked his sheets under the mattress too tightly, effectively creating an Egyptian cotton prison. He thrashes about to no avail, groans, and then counts to ten.

Eventually, he detangles himself from the Egyptian cotton confinement and attempts to stand but is startled when his knees buckle. The ground races towards his face. Stiles panics—reflexively throwing out his arms to stop himself, but like his knees before, they fail him too. And his face promptly meets the carpet.

After a few moments, he finds it in himself to push up off the ground and onto unsteady legs. He contemplates whether or not he has the will to drag himself down the stairs for breakfast and then back up the stairs to get dressed and brush his teeth…and ultimately decides that no, he doesn't have to will for all that.

Instead, he heads towards the bathroom. Where upon entry, he discovers that his hands are still in their claw-like shape but attempts to pick up his toothbrush anyway. He manages to scoop the brush up with his index and middle fingers and immediately frowns. _How the hell am I gonna do this? _No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get the toothpaste on the toothbrush. _Fuck it. I'll just chew gum. What's one day without dental hygiene? _

.

He drags his feet to the bureau where he claws open a drawer and scoops out the first shirt he can get his hands on, which happens to be a plain white shirt with the words "¡Que fuerte!" in vibrant green, looping letters. He sets it on top of the bureau and moves to cross his arms in front of him to pull his night shirt off, but his arms are too heavy from fatigue to complete the action. He makes an unmanly squeaking noise at the pain that bolts up the length of his arm into his shoulder, but tries one more time (for the sake of his manly pride) and is met with the same resistance. Next he tries reaching over his head, but his arm doesn't even pass his ear. Finally, he tries gripping the edge of his left sleeve to pull his arm through, backing up as if the steps will help him get undressed faster. Unfortunately, he is so focused on freeing his arm that he doesn't notice the door looming behind him and accidentally collides with the sturdy wood of his bedroom door.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." He grumbles.

There's a concerned knock at the door, and his dad says, "Stiles, you okay?"

Stiles takes a deep, cleansing breath before he answers, "Yeah, I'm fine," a bit harsher than he intends.

"Okay…" He hears his dad walk away.

Alone again, he continues battling against the stubborn article of clothing until finally he wrenches it from his frame. He takes a moment to internally celebrate his small victory. Then trudges back to the bureau to begin another struggle. As it turns out, putting a shirt on with sore arms is a lot easier than taking one off.

Once he has the shirt on, he realizes the irony of the words "que fuerte," (which is Spanish for "how strong.") and glowers down at the letters as if they had a personal vendetta against him and debates whether or not he had the patience or the strength to take the shirt off again. _Eh, too much trouble. _Then he looks forlornly down at his pajama pants, decorated with dancing bananas.

After a string of curse words and a series of falls, Stiles decides to sit on the floor to wiggle into a pair of trusty jeans. It takes forever for him to tug the jeans all the way up his tower long legs, but after a long (and quite frankly tiring) process, he's mostly clothed. Shoes are less of a struggle than the rest of his outfit, but he does not have it in him to wrestle on a pair of socks, so he goes sockless. His hands are still stuck in the claw like position they had started in, and his fingers weren't up to the task of tying laces, so Stiles crams his feet into the first pair of laceless shoes he finds.

.

By the time Stiles gets to the Jeep, he is seriously worried that he won't be able to drive himself to school. He gets the door to the car open on the third try (before that it takes him two tries to even lift his arm). Now he's really skeptical and regrets the way he had scoffed at the option of driving an automatic when he had been choosing a car. Buyer's remorse had never been so physically painful.

Eyeing the driver's seat wearily, Stiles heaves his entire body into the car with what little energy he can muster, and ends up half way into the passenger seat. Soon it's time to start the car, and hold in the clutch, and remember to shift gears as he drives. As his Jeep rumbles to life, he has to actively will his body to cooperate with him. _Today is going to suck._ He thinks, as the Jeep jerks out of the driveway, he feels as if he's learning to drive a stick all over again.

.

It feels like an eternity before he makes it to the school parking lot, but on a happier note, he scares the shit out of the kid parked right next to him when he tumbles out of the driver's seat (because he's too weak to land correctly).

.

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><p><em>Please let me know what you think! It's my first time writing a Teen Wolf fic so I'm curious about how the character portrayals turned out. Anyway leave a comment letting me know what you thought and whether you'd like to see more of the story posted.<em>


	2. Chaos in the Chemistry Lab

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He tries tell Scott that he had a weird dream, which he thinks could be a reflection of his psyche and that his body feels like it's made out of really loose Jell-O, but Scott cuts him off with a message for Allison.

"Sorry Stiles, but could we talk about your dreams another time? I need you to tell Allison something for me."

Stiles sighs, in a "woe-is-me" fashion, but grits his teeth and waits for the message.

"Tell her that I love her, and that everything is going to be okay. Oh, and give her this…" There's a moment where Stiles is worried that he's going to have to pass a kiss or hug (or something equally awkward) on to Allison, but Scott only pulls a folded piece a paper from his pocket and hands it over. Then he grins sheepishly afterward, like it's no big deal that Allison's grandfather had stabbed him last night and threatened to kill Melissa if he didn't stay away. Scott and Allison were going to have to be even more subtle in their communications than before.

Stiles' jaw had clenched at this news, and he had wanted to scold Scott and tell him how stupid this whole situation was. It was all so insane and out of control. The more they learned about the world around them the more it felt like they knew less. Stiles had never felt like such a child until all of this uncontrollable shit had started happening.

And why couldn't the Argents just relax and let professionals (and by professionals he is obviously referring to Scott, Allison, and himself) deal with this new threat? They were all theoretically on the same side anyway right? He thinks he hears Scott say he's sorry about all this, because he always _is _sorry.

"We can talk about all that dream stuff later, okay?"

Stiles tries to wave a hand dismissively, but it just looks like he's tiredly trying to swat at a bug. "Don't worry about it, bud. I'll see you later."

.

It's called a Kanima and it's a huge pain in the ass. Apparently, these things are the product of a werewolf bite gone horribly wrong. Instead of fur and freedom and howls, the Kanima is all scales and terror and a tail that paralyzes people.

As Stiles thinks about the qualities of this freaky, nightmarish creature, he remembers the flash of pain in his spine before the paralysis had set in. His muscles had seized suddenly and then abruptly relaxed. And if he thinks about it, he can still feel the cold press of the pavement against his cheek and the terror prickling along his spine as he watched helplessly (uselessly) as his Jeep crushed that asshole mechanic.

This thought makes Stiles pause.

Sure the guy had been a jerk, who had been more than happy to overcharge for his completely unnecessary services, but he was dead now. He didn't need to be dead _and _asshole, did he?

.

His brow is furrowed, he's trying very hard to ignore the pain in his legs when Lydia struts down the hall in these loud, clicking shoes, and comes to a halt right in front of him.

Lydia Martin is always a vision, and today is no different. Half of her beautiful red (oh but it's actually strawberry blonde) hair is swept up in a bun, so perfectly messy that Stiles suspects she spent an hour making the hairstyle look effortless, while the rest dangles behind her shoulders.

"Stiles," She hisses his name like it's a bad taste on her tongue. She's been commanding his attention a lot lately, which is a (pleasant) surprise to say the least. He was communicating from Scott to Allison, through _Lydia _now. A small part of him wanted to thrust a fist in the air for the utter victory that was Lydia Martin being forced to talk to him on a semi-regular basis, but the smarter, cynical part of him kept that action quelled.

Regardless of the benefits to be reaped from having a portion of Lydia's attention, he nearly jumps out of his skin when she talks to him. He quite literally flails for a moment, and with a tight grip on the one backpack strap on his shoulder he says, "…yes Lydia?"

The red head rolls her eyes as if she can't believe she's here speaking with Stiles Stilinski of all people (because she probably can't), and tosses that waterfall of red curls over her petite shoulder. After rifling through her purse, she liberates a neatly folded piece of note book paper, and holds it toward him—between two leather gloved fingers.

She doesn't elaborate, clearly ready to be done with this conversation.

But the gloves are an odd touch. (He notices them as he notices everything about Lydia.) She doesn't wear gloves when she's inside—presumably so she can wear any of the many gemstone rings and diamond bracelets she has. She always buys jewelry like its candy, and wears it as if it's cheap plastic.

"What's with the gloves?" he asks as he takes the note, taking care to brush his fingers against her gloved ones as he did so. He doesn't miss the way she tenses at the contact or the question, not in repulsion (which is what he had been expecting) but in fear. Repulsion he can handle, years of this cold blooded woman's emotional abuse had thickened his skin. Fear made his insides clench. He just wanted to wrap her up in his arms and hold her until all this crazy werewolf business was over.

But this was Lydia Martin he was thinking about, and in true Lydia Martin fashion, she doesn't let her discomfort show in public.

There is maybe a moment or two of silence before she smirks like she has a secret, she knows something he doesn't, and straightens her back. "Not that you would know anything about _fashion, _Stiles, but these gloves are very in this year."

Clearly she thinks that being sassy and cavalier will get him off her case. She would be absolutely wrong on this front. He tucks the note in the front pocket of his jeans and gives her a lopsided grin. "Is that so?"

She rolls her eyes. "Of course it is."

For once he feels like he has the upper hand in the conversation. He feels like a giddy child at Christmas when he points out that she's actually had those gloves for three years—he remembers the year she got them because she always held them so daintily when she wasn't wearing them inside. He feels cool for about five seconds, before he realizes that he's just gushed about yet another adorable thing that Lydia Martin does, to the one and only Lydia Martin.

The red head blinks a few times. And he can tell she wants to laugh or sneer. She wants to think this observation is stupid and a bit creepy. And by all rights she probably _should. _But instead of disgust and validation, he sees a genuine confusion in her eyes.

"Why do you know that?" Her eyes are bright with sincere curiosity.

"I…um. No reason." He says quickly, and turns to go before this conversation goes any more downhill. Part of him can't believe she's still somehow unaware of the extend of his feelings for her—but his cynical side is right there again to remind him that high school is a cruel, cruel place full of hormones and one-sided crushes.

.

Scott has this goofy grin on his face when he reads the note from Allison. Stiles wants to gag as he waits for his friend to come back from whatever sexy day dream his girlfriend has sent him to. Eventually he's forced to snap in front of Scott's face several times, calling "Earth to Scott! Come in, Scott!" so they aren't late to their next class. Thankfully, the post script of the note isn't as gooey as the first half, and it leaves Scott with a rather somber, determined look on his face.

"What'd she say?"

"I'll tell you later."

Funnily enough, Scott never got around to telling him.

.

Stiles literally throws himself into his English class a few days later, where he gracelessly falls into his chair behind Scott. He has news. Very, very, important, big scary werewolf news. "You will never guess who came back to school today." He tries to make his voice hold some type of edge—like what he's about to say will change the world.

But just as he had been doing for the past few days Scott beats him to the punch, "I think I already know, Stiles."

Stiles grins more to himself than toward the back of Scott's head. "Oh I don't think you do."

"It's Isaac." Scott says without looking over his shoulder.

Honestly, Stiles is a little offended. He couldn't even _look him in the eye _when he ruined the big surprise? He frowns and slouches down in his seat. "How'd you know?"

The person of interest chuckles, drawing Stiles' attention to the seat diagonally in front of Scott's. Isaac is smiling sweetly from his seat and slowly moving his fingers in an "innocent" wave. Stiles sees the action for what it really is: a taunt. He feels pressure behind his left temple as his head begins to throb with the stress.

He leans forward and tries his hardest to lower his voice so Isaac can't hear what he's saying (but the feigned hurt look the other werewolf makes tells Stiles he didn't miss what he said), "What the hell is _ he _doing here?"

"I have no idea."

.

By the time Chemistry class comes around, they have an idea. Isaac and Erica have been making overly dramatic gestures and cheeky expressions toward Lydia for the past ten minutes, as Mr. Harris snarks on about what they'll be doing in class today. Stiles and Scott have Lydia practically sandwiched between them, and she doesn't look particularly happy about it. He can tell she is actively trying to be patient with them. She isn't going to yell at them now because that would cause a scene, but Stiles can tell by the way she presses her painted lips in a firm line that she's thinking of exactly how she's going to reprimand them later.

They'll be working in partners on an experiment, and it's the tensest Chemistry class Stiles has been in all year. At one point he's paired with Isaac, who regales him with the tale of his confession to Lydia once upon a time. Stiles busies himself by dumping the contents of the experiment into the beaker in between them.

Then Isaac threatens to kill her.

Stiles doesn't like to think of himself as a violent person, but somewhere in the depths of his skull, his mind comes up with a rather clever and quite frankly _dark _thing to say, "If you harm a single strand of that perfect strawberry blonde hair on that pretty little head of hers, I'm going to skin your little werewolf ass, turn it into a fur coat, and give it to her as a present for her birthday." The frown is set so deeply on his mouth that it almost makes the muscles in his jaw hurt.

Isaac looks mildly surprised at first. Then he elongates his nails and examines them casually. He glances at Stiles with a knowing smile on his face, a smile that says: _You don't frighten me, Stiles._ But the words he says are, "Sure thing, buddy."

Stiles doesn't know why it happens or how, but in the next moment his muscles tense—then he feels himself smiling and Isaac suddenly looks apprehensive. Stiles leans toward the other boy, his voice low and soft, a velvet whisper. "As long as we understand each other."

He doesn't remember Isaac shuffling away when they have to switch partners again. Scott is next to him suddenly, looking wary, with his eyes trained on Lydia and the other werewolf sitting next to her. The beaker between them has this strange goo in it—something tells him that's not what the experiment is supposed to look like but he can't find it in him to care at the moment. As he watches the exchange between Isaac and Lydia, he begins feeling light headed.

They've created rock candy and it's edible. Isaac offers the candy to Lydia with the tongs from their table, and it's like the world is moving in slow motion. He's stopped breathing.

She looks pleasantly surprised, but takes the offered treat.

The shortage of oxygen makes his lungs burn. He can feel his accelerated heartbeat throbbing in his skull, and if anything happens to Lydia he thinks—no he _knows _—he's going to die. He can't stand the thought of a world without Lydia Martin in it. She just recovered from Peter Hale's bite—he can't take seeing her in a hospital bed again, skin cold and nearly translucent.

She bites into crystalized cubes, and it's the loudest crunch Stiles has ever heard. The world goes silent, and it's like they're all in an old silent film. Colors fade to a dull grey, contrasted by whites and black. He watches in horror as Lydia swallows the poisoned piece of candy.

And he's never felt more helpless.

The clock is suddenly deafening, seconds thundering by as he and the werewolves watch and wait.

Nothing happens.

Lydia shrugs to herself, as if she were impressed by her own accomplishment. Stiles is just so thankful that she isn't paralyzed. And then a wave of dread overtakes him. _She isn't paralyzed. The venom didn't work. But it's not her. _He wants to shout, wants to grab Derek by the shoulders and shake him because he's such an idiot for thinking the Kanima could ever be Lydia.

Isaac and Erica exchange and knowing, triumphant look, like they've found the wolf in sheep's skin. They're ready to end this ceaseless string of killings. Stiles can see the violent excitement vibrating under their skin as the two werewolves silently debate who gets to give the alpha the news: they're ready for the hunt to begin.

Stiles looks to Scott for help. When he does, he knows Scott sees the question in his eyes: _What do we do now?_

.

They have to protect Lydia Martin at all costs. Even if it means teaming up with the co-captain jackass of the lacrosse team: Jackson Whittemore. But Jackson doesn't _want _to help.

Stiles and Scott corner him in the locker room that afternoon. He looks stupid, with his chest puffed up and that cocky look on his face. "You need _my _help? You have McCall and The Village People to help you already."

Scott looks momentarily confused by the nickname, but Stiles is not impressed. Jackson is giggling over his own insulting "prowess", and that's when Stiles grabs him by the collar of his tight fitting white sweater and shoves him up against the wall of lockers behind him.

At first Jackson only looks amused, Scott seems surprised Stiles went for the violence at all, but quickly straightens and frowns at the boy before them in silent moral support. Jackson scoffs, "What are you gonna do? Flail all over me until I pass out or something?"

_No, I'm going to rip your spine out from your throat. _Stiles' subconscious purrs with that voice of blue velvet, relishing in the thought of gore. He doesn't have time to be prickled by the dark turn his thoughts have taken. He can only focus on Lydia, and the immediate danger she's in. _Have to keep her safe. Need to keep her safe. This asshole has to help us keep her safe._

It's like an ancient mantra. _Danger, she's in danger. Safe, gotta keep her safe._

Jackson is chattering about something, but Stiles can no longer hear him, his mouth is just flapping silently like a fish out of water. Stiles could feel anger swelling in the pit of his stomach, crawling up his lungs, and dripping from his mouth in a hiss, "Shut up."

Before Jackson can open his mouth for another smug retort, Stiles has a palm clamped around his jaw, squeezing until his fingertips felt the bone underneath the skin. He is careful to keep his nails from digging in, but his grip is secure. Even without the hand on his collar, Jackson is pinned to the lockers by his face, and he finally looks nervous.

"Careful, Stiles. We're in the locker room." Scott whispers to his right.

Stiles huffs out a dry laugh. "Oh he's fine, aren't you buddy? Someone scrawny and weak like me can't be hurting someone like you." Then he leans in until his breath fans over the hand clutching Jackson's jaw. "If anything happens to Lydia because of your refusal to help, I will rip out your spine through your nostrils. And I will enjoy it. Got that?"

He can feel Scott buzzing with discomfort behind him, but it does nothing to quell the surge of anger coursing through his veins. With his point made, he releases Jackson, brushing his hand along his own cheap shirt afterward. His eyes are the color of whiskey and burn just as much as they turn from Jackson.

Scott has never seen his friend like this, and he honestly isn't sure what he should do about it. But before he can worry about it further, Stiles is calling for Scott to "come along", because they have to protect Lydia.

.

The first night Allison, Stiles, and Jackson go to Scott's house and get ambushed by Derek and his pack. They manage to fend them off, but Derek is still convinced that the Kanima has to be Lydia, so the protection detail continues.

Scott, Allison, and Stiles have set up a schedule, where they take turns watching over Lydia. She doesn't enjoy it, and she has made this point apparent several times. But Allison manages to calm her down enough for her to accept the situation. The red head still wants to know what the hell is going on, but they haven't figured out how they're going to explain everything without sounding insane.

Stiles thinks they should keep in her in the dark for her own safety, but Scott and Allison aren't sure. Allison explains that she knew how it felt to be kept in the dark, and ultimately that had only put her in danger. She also knows how it feels to be powerless, and she doesn't wish that on her best friend. Scott reasons that she might be safer if she knew what to look out for. But Stiles still isn't sure.

.

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><p><em>This story is so very quickly becoming my baby it isn't even funny. Anyway please comment and let me know what you think~<em>


	3. Out of My League

_Hello again! Sorry for the little delay between chapters, college tests and essays got the better of me. But anyway! Here's the next installment~ I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!_

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><p>.<p>

It's his first night staying with her and she insists that _he come to her house_. And he goes because it's Lydia Martin.

.

Lydia answers the door with a cup of coffee and a skeptical look on her face. As always, she looks stunning. His eyes fall briefly to the chain of plastic red flowers strewn across her collarbone. The red is so bright against the canvas of flawless marble that is her skin. But he doesn't want her think he's trying to stare at her cleavage, so he quickly looks a few inches lower (which may not have been the best course of action) to take in the cotton shirt she's wearing. It's adorned with purple flowers, falling diagonally down her front.

"You look nice."

She scoffs with an eye roll as if that were already obvious.

Stiles is fully prepared to be put in a corner and ignored for the rest of the night. And for the first two hours he's there, that's what happens.

.

They're sitting upstairs (it had taken a lot of effort on his part to keep his eyes away from the tan skirt sweeping tauntingly high on her thighs) in Lydia's "study" room, which is the size of Stiles' entire bedroom. A window faces the west side of the Martin property, the landscape a picturesque portrayal of an upper class neighborhood. She sits in some office chair/throne hybrid, with huge cushions sculpted behind her as if they were only there to emphasize her tiny figure. And along the top of this high rise chair are five giant pink glittery letters: "Lydia". Her desk looks expensive—it's possibly made of mahogany. It, like everything else Lydia Martin owns, is a grand display of wealth. And she sits behind it, looking unimpressed, as if it were made of cheap cherry wood.

Stiles is trying to focus on reading the assigned chapters for History class, really he is, but he still hasn't gotten used to being _this _close to Lydia Martin. Not to mention he was _alone _with her at _her _house. He was in _Lydia Martin's _house. This was all still a novel concept, and he feels so awkward and out of place in her home.

At 6:25 he can feel Lydia glancing at him from underneath those perfect long lashes, so he looks up to meet her eyes, bright green and torn.

"What's up?" He tries to sound cool and collected.

She doesn't answer him at first, lips pressing together at the same moment her eyes narrow. It's difficult to look menacing in a pink cardigan, but Lydia manages it. Stiles swallows.

"How long are you guys planning on keeping me in the dark?"

Stiles tries to play dumb, which isn't a difficult task around Lydia. "Huh?"

She rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb, Stiles. You know what I mean. When is somebody going to explain what the hell is going on?"

He tries to think of some sort of explanation that doesn't involve werewolves or Kanimas or anything remotely supernatural.

"And don't you lie to me."

He takes a moment to stare at her, stunned. Lydia was many things, beautiful, genius, fashionable, a goddess. She did what she wanted whenever she wanted. The queen of the red heads. The object of his affection since the third grade. And yet she still surprised him on a day to day basis. He's truly dumbfounded for a moment, mouth hanging open for so long that he almost starts drooling.

But she's starting to look repulsed by whatever expression he's making, so Stiles straightens. "Well…it's..."

He can see the anger threatening to bubble from her lips as he prepares to blow off her question, which should be a clear sign to stop spouting bullshit, but he doesn't. "It's complicated."

"You don't know complicated. I know complicated—I _am _complicated."

_And no one would ever claim otherwise, Lydia._

She openly pouts, and it's more adorable than intimidating. "Just tell me."

"Nope."

"Tell me."

"Not gonna happen."

"Stiles!"

Stiles wants to tell her everything. He _really _does. But if he has to choose between keeping her in an ignorant bubble of safety and thrusting her into the insanity that is being informed about battling a crazy lizard man (or woman) with Derek running around creating new creepy werewolves…he would happily choose to keep her in the dark.

.

She doesn't get any information out of him that night. Or the next time he runs into her to at school to exchange another set of messages for Allison and Scott. But as always, Lydia Martin is tenacious, and begins a cycle of hitting Stiles with a barrage of questions.

He tells Scott about it as they walk into the parking lot on Stiles' fourth night of watch.

"She is so _determined_—like a little red headed army commander. I'm afraid she might kill me in my sleep if I don't give her something soon."

Scott considers this, his thoughts plain on his face as he glances around and then frowns as if he couldn't find the answer he had been looking for. After a few more steps he's shrugging his shoulders and saying, "Well maybe it's time that we told her what's up."

Stiles stops dead in his tracks with his mouth hanging open. "Are you insane? We _can't _tell her what's going on!"

"Why not?"

_God sometimes Scott can be so_ _thick. _

(This thought surprises him, as usually his annoyances with his best friend are minimal and rarely fully formed complaints in his head).

Stiles' reply is delayed due to the internal dialogue he has begun with himself. "…because think about what we would say. 'Hey Lydia so it turns out that werewolves are a real thing. Scott, Isaac, Erica, and that one creepy guy named Derek—you know the one that we accused of murdering a bunch of people—are some…just to name a few. And there are countless more where they came from that we don't even know about yet. Oh and about your best friend Allison…it turns out she comes from a long line of crazy ass hunters who are constantly fighting supernatural creatures with stupidly large and scary guns and causing all sorts of trouble—"

"Stiles," Scott says gently, his tone amending. "You know her family is only trying to protect the greater good. Just like us."

"No, no Scott. _We—you and I_…" He gestures between himself and his best friend frantically. "We are trying to protect the greater good. Everyone else is just involved."

Scott's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "So you're saying Allison is just _involved? _She's trying to help us!"

"Whatever. The point is—not even her best friend is normal. We tell Lydia what's going on and she won't know what to do with herself. Nothing will ever be the same! We'll shatter that ignorant bubble that's keeping her pretty little head safe."

Scott doesn't look very convinced of any of this, and it's getting very frustrating for Stiles. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing in the veins of his neck. He clenches his hands into fists, teeth grinding together as his jaw sets. It's an action Scott doesn't miss.

Maybe he hears Stiles' heart racing, maybe he's just a good friend, but the next moment Scott is putting his hands on Stiles' shoulders and telling him, "Okay."

Stiles presses his lips together as Scott squeezes his shoulders. "I hear you, buddy. I hear what you're saying. If you think it's too complicated to tell Lydia everything right now, we'll wait. But Allison has a say in this too you know. She's the one who has to hang out with Lydia on a day to day basis."

Stiles nods like he understands because he does, but at the same time he completely _doesn't. _He just wants this whole thing to be over. He wants Lydia to go back to pretending he doesn't exist—he wants her to look fed up when she's roped into going on a double date with him, Scott, and Allison. He wants to go back to worrying about homework and lacrosse. He just wants everything to return to normal. But _when? _When were things ever going to be normal when you were best friends with a werewolf?

.

Allison doesn't like the idea of putting off the inevitable, but she relents when Stiles repeats the rant he had given Scott. For now they'll keep her in the dark.

"But we have to tell her sometime soon." Allison warns with a finger pointed at Stiles' face. The three of them have gathered in the library for a secret meeting, the boys on one side of the bookcase, Allison on the other. It's their emergency meeting spot, where they go to discuss Lydia in worst case scenarios.

And as they leave the library that afternoon, Stiles thinks he catches the photographer enthusiast, Matt Daehler, following them with his trusty camera lens.

.

It's the fourth night they'll be spending together. The first two consisted of Lydia scolding him for things that were out of his control. And for the most part, it was tolerable. She spent the third night ignoring him for not answering any of her questions satisfactorily. By the fourth night he isn't sure what to expect.

But this time when she answers the door she looks…amused. Worry sets in almost immediately.

"We're watching musicals tonight." It's not a request or a question.

He blinks a few times as the words process. Then he says something incredibly dumb like "Um, o-okay."

It's the first time they don't head straight to the study room, and Stiles finds himself feeling giddy. It's hard to contain himself.

The Martin's have a "media room" that feels more like miniature personal theater. With a high rise ceiling, the tall walls are painted in dark red, and the carpet is a plush navy. He doesn't even _want_ to know the exact measurements of the projection screen mounted on the north wall in front of them. He glances at her, uncertain. _Is this even real?_

If this were all a dream, it wouldn't be his first involving Lydia Martin, but it would have been the first time he made himself feel inferior to a television—oh no wait it's just a big ass screen—in her house. He had, of course, made himself feel inferior to other aspects of the Martin house, but he'd rather not dwell on things like that.

"What are we watching first?" He asks when he's finished gawking.

She pretends to ponder this question—like she hasn't already planned out the entire evening. There are these (fancy) leather armchairs that are apparently specifically manufactured for media rooms in front of them. And there's a panel on the wall to their left with several buttons, all programmed to adjust the lights in one room. Six different light switches for one room. It feels a little unnecessary but there's no sense in complaining about it.

Lydia seats herself gracefully in the middle chair near the front of the room. Stiles trails after her in a daze.

"Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." She says finally, leaning back in her fancy leather throne, propping her feet up in front of her.

Stiles lowers himself into the seat on her left. "Okay…what's that about?"

She rolls her eyes, because obviously he hasn't heard of this movie, and she had been expecting this question. And then she proceeds to completely ignore it. Which makes Stiles feel even more stupid than he already does, so he quickly mutters something like, "I guess I'll just have to wait and see."

Lydia nods at this idea, reaching over the arm of her chair to pluck a remote off the cushion of the chair to her right. She presses a button with one of her tiny fingers and the whole room rumbles to life. The lights dim and projector overhead clicks on, and Stiles finds himself actually pretty excited.

He's watching a movie with Lydia Martin.

Granted, it's in her ridiculously expensive media room and it's a _musical _(though if he were being honest he didn't mind musicals all that much). It isn't anywhere close to how he pictured it happening (the ten year plan had him getting to this point in a few more years) but the point is, that it was currently in motion. As far as Stiles Stilinski was concerned, he finally had one foot in the door.

And as he watches the light bouncing off the screen in front of them light up the front of Lydia's face, and the cheesy old timey music streamed in from the speakers in the ceiling, Stiles grins.

.

After the first movie, Lydia stands up, ever graceful, and dances out of the room. She returns after what feels like a half hour in this gorgeous pink nightgown made of silk that brushes halfway down her thighs, with a matching silk robe that reaches halfway down her calves.

Stiles clutches the pillow he's commandeered from one of the other chairs tightly over his lap. Lydia either doesn't notice the action or doesn't care, because she doesn't comment on it. As she floats back into the room, he notices she's carrying a giant metal tackle box, and Stiles wonders if she's planning to give him a makeover or something. _I sincerely hope not. There's no need for torture. I didn't talk __**that **__much during the film._

He holds his breath until she's right in front of him and setting the tackle box none too gently on top of the pillow on his lap.

"What's this?" Good thing he had grabbed that pillow earlier, because this box is way too heavy. _But she made it look so light._

"Tackle box." She says over her shoulder, she's turned away from him and going to switch out DVDs for the next musical.

"What's it for?"

"Open it and find out."

_Hell bent on making me guess tonight. I guess that's what I get for refusing to answer any of __**her **__questions. _

Stiles is honestly a little afraid, but flips open the locks of the big metal box in his lap, lifts the lid, and is immediately blown away by the sheer number of nail polish bottles, tools, and nail supplies packed inside. Each polish bottle is cubic in shape, with long white handles, with _Essie _label (written in distinctly cute font)along the side.

"Holy shit. That is a lot of nail polish." He blinks at the box stupidly as Lydia returns, and the next DVD begins its set of previews.

The bottles _clink, clink, clink_ as he tips them on their sides in search of their names. Then he notices the stickers and feels once again like a total dumbass. All of the bottles have a sticker on the very tip of their long white handle, naming the color framed in glass.

Lydia looks horribly amused and adorable when she says, "How are your manicuring skills?"

His mouth hangs open for a moment as he calculates this answer. And Stiles means to say something clever, really he does, but what comes out is far less intelligent. "Uh. I dunno. I've never…manicured?" Was that the right tense? Did one manicure or give manicures? Was it an action or a thing? _Ahh screw it. _Ultimately, he can't decide so he amends with, "I've never done anything like that before."

She doesn't look surprised, but offers her hand to him like a queen offering her hand to a peasant. "Well let's find out."

Stiles takes her hand as if he _is _a peasant, staring at it with the same sort of reverence he had when he had first seen her. "O-okay."

.

Stiles has wanted to hold Lydia Martin's hand since the third grade. And now, during the course of _The Sound of Music _one of his greatest wishes has come true. He is in the process of removing the previous coat of polish from Lydia's perfectly maintained nails. He would _never _(and _will_ never)tell Scott this, but he was sort of…enjoying it.

Firstly, he got to hold Lydia Martin's hand and she didn't think anything of it. Second, being so focused on the task at hand kept him from thinking about that fact that there was a lizard monster running around killing people. Thirdly, he got to sing along to the songs of _The Sound of Music _under his breath and not be judged for it. She didn't laugh at him (well, she had giggled in the beginning when he started humming to himself, looking over at him rather excitedly and asking, "You know the songs?".

To which he had nodded rather meekly in embarrassment. "My mom loved musicals. I used to watch them with her all the time."

Lydia had touched him with her other hand with this sad sort of look on her face, it was the first time she had ever shown him such a sympathetic gesture, and the action made his heart skip a beat.

"I'm so sorry Stiles." She whispered, and he could tell she really meant it, her green eyes trembling with a delicate gleam of compassion.

It was always awkward talking about his mother with other people. They always got this really somber look on their face and suddenly didn't know how to talk to him. As if some sort of heavy duty had suddenly been place on their shoulders. It was something Stiles had gotten used to as the years went on and questions were asked, "How're your parents?", "Do you not have a mom?", "Where is she?", "What happened?", "How did she...?". Grief was not something easily handled amongst his teenage peers. But in that moment, he couldn't help but feel oddly comforted by Lydia's sincere apology.)

And now Julie Andrews is singing that famous number where she teaches the Von Trapp children how to sing. Stiles is working a q tip along the plate of Lydia's thumbnail, and bobbing his head as he quietly sings along. He can see her smiling out of the corner of his eye and feels a small swell of triumph. Making Lydia Martin smile was always a good accomplishment in his book.

By the time he gets both sets of nails cleaned off, the Von Trapp children are well on their way to singing like professionals. (Stiles finds the ability for them to magically be able to sing so well, despite his fondness for the musical, a bit suspicious but says nothing of it).

"What now?" He asks, reluctantly setting her hand aside.

"Now…" She says as she plucks a bottle from the giant tackle box in the other chair. He hands her the large square shaped plastic bottle filled with purple liquid (called nail polish remover he learned) over in exchange for the much smaller, glass one Lydia has. It's full of clear liquid. "You put on a base coat."

He is way too pleased with the idea of painting her nails (though in his mind he rationalizes the task by registering it as more hand holding).

.

Stiles is something of a perfectionist.

He tries extraordinarily hard to keep any polish from slipping onto Lydia's perfect skin (because he doesn't want to be the one to tarnish it). When the base coat is applied to each nail and dried, it's time to choose a color. And it's just in time for the Von Trapp ball.

He fully expects her to have already picked what colors he'll be applying, which is why he makes a stupid noise when she clears her throat after a few moments of waiting. "Huh?"

"Pick a color."

"…Me?"

She rolls her pretty green eyes at him. "Yes, I mean _you._"

"But…" He trails off at the way her eyebrows raise in offense.

"Do you not trust my judgment, Stiles?"

_She said my name…_It's pathetic how much excitement he feels when she says his name so easily. Sure, he's said her name plenty of times—but it never meant anything special. Usually it meant he was being an idiot and she was sighing his name out of exasperation. It was rare for her to just be saying it to…well say it. Of course _he _had always been saying _her _name. That's nothing new. But just now, by saying _his _of all names. That meant something.

She saw him as a person. And somewhere in the back of his mind a voice of blue velvet whispered, _What a novel concept. She acknowledges your existence. Years and years of planning just to lead up to this moment. Her not saying your name as if you were an insect._

He tries to ignore the voice, really he does, but it's tone is so seductive and foreign. His expression must have become serious, because she suddenly looks concerned, but he's already standing and circling around her to peer inside the magical tackle box. He selects Bahama Mama (dark red) and Penny Talk (a shiny copper), mostly for the names.

But as always, Stiles has something akin to a plan in mind.

He sits down again and sets the copper color aside, holding his palm out toward Lydia expectantly. She looks skeptical at his choice of colors, but sets her hand in his anyway.

The ball is over by the time he starts apply the first coat of red to her nails, and Stiles decides that he really likes the feel of Lydia's hand in his. Her hands are so small and dainty, perfectly manicured and soft. It's obvious she takes care of herself—Stiles had known this for years. But to be able to appreciate her beauty up close is…something else. He can't decide which finger is his favorite, but he's certain it's a tie between her thumb and her pinky.

It's like her nails were made to be painted. As Stiles struggles to maintain a good streak of not getting polish outside the nail plate, he notices the shape of her nails, and (as he does with every other part of Lydia Martin) commits it to memory.

.

Lydia is having a miniature rant about the Baroness' character as he finishes the first coat of paint on her left hand, and it's literally the most adorable thing Stiles has ever heard. While her nails dry she tries to refrain from gesturing while she talks, and Stiles can feel his jaw starting to hurt from smiling so much.

And by the time he starts the second coat of polish (as instructed by Lydia) they've created several jokes about the Baroness and her coy ploys to get rid of Maria.

While that coat dries, Stiles busies himself by searching through the tackle box and finds a set of tools that look like they belong to a mad scientist. The tools are meticulously clean and individualized, and he isn't entirely sure what they're all for, but he grabs one with a thin pointed edge and returns to his seat.

"Do you have any little trays in there or something?"

Lydia blinks at him, and it's the first time he thinks he's ever caught her off guard without complimenting her. "I do…" She glances at the tool he's twiddling his fingers around and her forehead creases in confusion. "Do you need one?"

At his nod she turns and riffles through the box until she liberates a tray, and hands it over to him, taking care to avoid bumping her nails against anything inside the box. After a moment of silent appreciation, Stiles takes the tray and balances it on the large space of the armrest in between them, unscrewing the cap of the copper color and carefully dabbing a little pool onto the tray's center with the polish brush. Taking the tool with the pointed tip, he dips the end of the tool into the polish and holds out his hand in request for hers. When she sets her hand in his again, he carefully traces lines (all at varying heights) across the red painted plates of each nail. The effect is rather stunning and honestly, he's really impressed with himself. _I'm really surprised I didn't fuck that up._

At this thought the voice of velvet chuckled and murmurs, _And you can do so much more too._

He finds the interaction creepy, and thinks he really should consider going to therapy. But now isn't the time for all that. Now is the time to bask in the glory of his manicuring skills, and the fact that Lydia Martin is trying her best not to look pleasantly surprised.

He applies another coat of copper as if he's performing surgery. And when he is certain the lines are thoroughly dry he takes the bottle of top coat Lydia hands him and applies that as well.

All in all, he thinks he could make a damn good manicurist. He only has to spend a few minutes cleaning up the skin around each nail (because it _was _his first time painting nails after all and he should feel so lucky that he made this small of a mess).

.

After three more musicals (_Cry Baby, West Side Story, and Oklahoma) _she's ready for bed. And Stiles feels good about the way the evening has unfolded. He isn't afraid to talk about how musicals make him feel (seeing as he has a secret fondness for them anyway) or the way they're constructed. And he definitely doesn't mind commenting on the numbers themselves and the singers (like _anything_ could stop him from commentating). He's impressed Lydia with his miscellaneous knowledge and factoids about the production of musicals, as well as his hidden talent for painting nails and that's the important thing.

Lydia walks him to the front door with a smile on her face, and Stiles feels like he could die happy in this moment. She's examining her nails with this look like she's surprised and impressed they turned out so well. And honestly, Stiles is a little surprised too.

"Well, looks like you've found a good career path for yourself."

He grins as he steps out the front door, and gives a little bow. "I only live to serve."

It's meant as a joke but he doesn't miss the way her eyes flit up and down his body—as if she's reassessing her image of him. He feels himself flush at the observation, cheeks warm and skin a dusty pink. She tilts her head to the side like she's decided on a new label for him, and he desperately wants to ask what it is. "…I'll keep that in mind."

_Is she __**flirting **__with me?_

"Uh…okay."

_Smooth, Stiles. Real smooth._

She gives him another melodious laugh, shaking her head a little, the action makes some of her hair tumble over her shoulder in a red curly heap. "Goodnight, Stiles."

He presses his lips together and tries to smile like a regular human being. "Goodnight, Lydia."

.

* * *

><p><em>If you can't tell I have a small fondness for musicals...hehehe<em>


	4. Insidious Kraken

.

Stiles hasn't gotten much sleep lately.

His dreams—nightmares—keep getting invaded by that horrible Kanima creature. Even the peaceful dreams of Lydia, dreams he used to take solace in, didn't give his mind a place to rest. He's pretty sure the only reason he hasn't gone completely batshit insane yet is because of Scott, Allison, and Lydia. The power couple (Scott and Allison) is keeping him grounded by assuring him that both the werewolves and the Argents are on the lookout for the Kanima—but people are still dying. The bodies keep piling higher and higher.

The next time he sees Scott he tells him its time they formed a search party of their own and hunted the damn thing down. They start at the school. And on their third night searching (they've thoroughly cleared all the back sheds and storage areas as well as the outer classrooms and football, soccer, and lacrosse fields). Usually they team up with Derek and his pack of creeper wolves, but tonight they've decided that bringing Lydia without the aid of the others is a good idea. Because they're complete dumbasses.

Somewhere along the way Allison had finally told Lydia what the hell was going on (because she couldn't take lying to her best friend any longer) and now (for whatever reason) the red head is determined to help them hunt this thing down.

At 10:30 Scott and Allison are at the helm of their stupid little squad, with Lydia and Stiles at the rear.

"Why are we here without back up again?" Stiles asks because, honestly he can't figure that part out.

Scott shakes his head at him like he's disappointed, and Allison answers the question rather fiercely, "We're doing it to save lives."

"Oh. Well as long as we're doing it for the right reasons..."

The power couple turns around to glower at him in perfect unison.

.

They split up to search for clues, not unlike the Scooby Doo gang would in any of the old cartoons. But this isn't some cheesy 70s cartoon with gaudy costumes and idiotic villains. It's real and it's dangerous. And down-right terrifying.

Stiles and Lydia are looking in the computer lab for any signs of the Kanima. She isn't as anxious as he expected her to be. She had taken all the news about all these supernatural creatures being an actuality pretty well for someone so rooted in science and logic. And now in the middle of this dark empty classroom he's thankful she's so stubbornly brave. She's got this pink flashlight, it's bedazzled and ridiculous but throws out a wider beam of light than the simple black flashlight Stiles lifted from his dad's patrol car.

Lydia has wandered to the back of the room to search by the last row of computers while Stiles remains at the front of the room, feeling antsy as he swipes a sweaty palm up the side of his denim clad leg. He can feel the tell tales of a panic attack coming on: severe anxiety, shortness of breath, accelerated heartbeat. He can feel the pulse of his heart drumming in his ear.

"Stiles?" From the look on her face she's discovered something unpleasant.

"Did you find something?" As he starts pacing toward the back of the room he follows her line of vision, spotting the pool of venom on the floor.

"I think so." She glances at him, then back to the pool on the tile, following the trail of liquid up the back of a computer, along the wall, and up to the ceiling. There is a corner of one of the ceiling panels that is considerably darker than the rest, and from it drips the same clear thick liquid. "What the hell is that?"

"Venom. Careful, you don't want to touch that stuff or you'll be paralyzed."

They hear a creak come from the front of the room, and the two of them glance toward the ceiling, where they watch as the darkness from the corner of the panel spreads until it consumes the entire space.

"We should probably run."

"Good idea."

And they do. Lydia goes out first, with Stiles right on her heels. He clears the doorway just as the creature bursts from the ceiling and lands on the ground in a slimy heap, fangs bared and dripping.

"Run!" He hears himself scream.

They're running down the hallway at top speed, with the creature right behind them, claws sliding against the school tile. He hears them scrape against the metal of lockers and senses that the creature is about to make a lounge for them.

Gripping Lydia tightly by the shoulders he abruptly changes direction, pulling her tiny body along and pushing her ahead of him once they had switched course. The scaled tail of the creature slices the air just over his head as the rest of the body flies passed, claws desperately seeking traction on the slippery tile surface.

Blood plumping, heart racing, Stiles is frantic as he makes sure to keep himself positioned between Lydia and the creature at all times. They duck into hallway after hallway as it gives chase.

"Where are we going?!" Lydia screams beside him, and Stiles wracks his brain for a solution. How do you kill a creature that's faster and stronger than you when you barely know how to defend yourself? He tries to remember everything he has learned about the creature so far, through fables, encyclopedias, websites. Then he remembers the night in the pool.

"The pool! I-I think it's afraid of water or something."

The creature's tail nearly whips Stiles in the back as it leaps passed them when they duck into another hallway. "Cut through the gym!"

It's nearly paralyzed him twice already. But all he can think of is keeping Lydia out of its reach. _Pool, gotta get to the pool, gotta get to the pool. _He keeps repeating this to himself as they continue running. He can hear Lydia struggling to keep up with him, her strides shorter than his, her build not as athletic. But she manages, pushing herself beyond her limits as she keeps pace with him.

He can see the safe haven of waters ahead of them. They've made it to the building that houses the swimming pools. As they're about to clear the entrance he hears the Kanima hissing just behind them, crouching low and ready to strike. _How did it catch up so quickly? _

He pushes Lydia out of the way before the thought fully forms in his head, and feels the sting of that scaled tail as it slices open the back of his neck. He hears Lydia scream, and the sound is _deafening. _The venom is cold in his blood stream and already numbing his body. The ground is rushing toward him and then his cheek hits the concrete hard, teeth biting into the flesh of the inside of his mouth.

Stiles tastes the coppery tang of blood.

Lydia is still screaming ahead of him, backing away as the Kanima advances, slithering passed Stiles' stiffening body. He tries reaching for the creature, to slow its advance, but he isn't quick enough. It's stalking toward her on all fours, gleefully flicking a serpentine tongue across a row of needle thin, sharp, bone white teeth.

Stiles is desperate as he reaches for Lydia, who's voice finally cracks as she runs out of air. She looks at Stiles, green eyes wide and terrified. He can see the reflection of the creature in the tears that form in her eyes. "L-Lydia…" He croaks, trying to scream for Scott or Allison or _someone—anyone to save them. _

The Kanima has her backed up against the edge of the deep end of the pool. She opens her mouth to scream again and this time Stiles sees a flash of white the sound is so loud. The creature cries out, apparently pained by the severe high pitch in her voice.

His vision is starting to fade. _No, no, no I have to stay awake. Lydia. I have to save Lydia._

Lydia is moving while the creature is immobilized, apparently in a temporary daze. She's so _fast. _Scrambling to get behind the creature, she screams again at the same blood curdling pitch. Stiles drops his head against the concrete, repeatedly thudding his head against the cold hard ground to stay awake. It's like nails grating against a chalkboard, Freddy Krueger's knives scraping against metal, and wet sneakers squeaking against tile all at once. His heartbeat throbs painfully in his head.

The Kanima cries out again. And as the world around him begins to blur he sees Lydia suddenly charge the creature, pausing just before it and kicking it square in the spine. The stunned lizard tumbles into the water.

Abruptly torn from its stupor it scrambles to stay afloat, screeching and moaning as it claws the liquid surface around it. The water sloshes around the giant lizard, lapping at the edges of the pool. It can't get purchase, it's drowning. Somewhere in the shadows of his mind a voice of blue velvet murmurs with a chuckle, _Its like a child drowning. _

But Lydia isn't done yet. Stiles can barely make out what she's reaching for his vision is so skewed and blurry, but she pulls something free from the purse strapped around her shoulder and points it at the frantic creature. She clicks a button and suddenly the entire pool is ignited with electricity. Blue streams of electricity spread across the surface like the branches of a tree, barren in the dead of winter. The current hits the lizard, wrapping around it and coursing through its veins like poison.

The creature yowls in pain, body jerking with the volts coursing through the water into its scaled body, but Lydia doesn't let go of the trigger. It feels like it goes on for hours—the Kanima's screeches, the buzz of electricity in the water, the water slapping against the concrete of the pool's rim—but from what Stiles can see, the creature finally disappears from view below the surface of the water. Lydia detaches something from the device Stiles now recognizes as a taser gun and rushes toward him.

The last thing he hears is the distant sound of Scott and Allison screaming as they run down the hall toward them.

.

Stiles feels like he's floating in some really cold water. His body is completely numb, but light.

He feels free.

He inhales deeply, feeling the air rush into his lungs, inflating his chest, pumping clean blood through his veins. He feels the oxygen flowing through him, spreading under his skin, wedged between muscle and bone, lifting him above the surface.

He feels really, _really _good.

And he can't help but laugh. Because he hasn't just laughed in a while. He throws his head back to laugh again, and finds that he now on his feet. The ground beneath him is solid, and white. The room around him a spacious, open, garden. With grass (the color of Lydia's eyes) and tall trees that dwarf him in size, he recognizes them as some species that hails from Asia. It's leaves are the color of flames, shades of red, orange, and yellow. It's odd. That the ground with flowers in full bloom seems stuck in spring and the trees up above are in the beginnings of autumn.

He's looking up at the tree tops when he feels a raindrop splash against his cheek. He blinks. _But…there aren't any clouds in the sky. Or a sun for that matter._

Stiles turns his head in search of the source of light. When another rain drop hits his face. Now he searches for the source of the water, squinting up into the sky to see if he can find a cloud hidden high among the layers of the atmosphere. But he can't find one.

Then the sky darkens, thick clouds of dark grey rolling overhead. Thunder rumbled in the distance, as the mass of darkness above him lit up. Flashes of light blind him temporarily, and he hears that voice of blue velvet louder than ever.

_Hello, Stiles._

And for the first time since the voice began speaking to him, Stiles is deeply, deeply enveloped in its presence.

.

* * *

><p><em>So originally I was going to post this on Halloween. But Alas it wasn't quite ready. Anyway sorry this chapter is a little shorter but I felt like it had enough going one without immense length. Maybe later I'll come back at add more to it if I think of something else but I'm pretty happy with it the way ti is. But here's some good news! The next chapter is already about halfway done so i'll try and get that done as soon as possible! Anyway please leave a comment, I love being updated on everyone's thoughts and hearing your input!<em>


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